He sat, riveted, unable to tear his eyes from the piece of white paper on the desk in front of him. His hand sat clasped firmly in his lap; if he let himself pick it up, he might lose control and tear it to shreds before he could stop himself. He didn't trust himself not to. Just one sheet of white paper, black ink smelling fresh, the looping signature at the bottom condemning the world with just a handful of letters.
He had felt the other losses; the death of his best friend, the incapacitation of Havoc, among other things. They had been bearable, if only just. This was crippling. He could have dealt with anything but this.
He was so distracted that he didn't notice when Fuery had returned from his lunch break, carrying his familiar metal lunch box. Nor when he was presented with the resignation papers for one Jean Havoc.
"Sir?" That was her voice, finally speaking somewhere other than in his head, quiet and subdued. He looked up with a start and realized she'd taken the paper from his desk and now held it in her hands. Their eyes met, dark, brooding versus calm, melancholy brown. They both knew what was happening, and were powerless to prevent it.
Without another word she handed the white piece of paper back to him. He fumbled for a pen momentarily, then, feeling as though he were signing away what little remained of his life, scribbled the few sloppy lines that his signature had long ago morphed into, acknowledging the transfer of the few remaining friends he had.